


The Boy on the Balcony

by weerus_n_turnip



Category: DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Dancer!Noiz, Koujaku has issues, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Noiz has issues, beastjaku, later chapters, they hate each other basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:15:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weerus_n_turnip/pseuds/weerus_n_turnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brat who stood atop the balcony just to contemplate the fall, claiming to be no damsel in distress<br/>But his eyes are hollow enough to burn a hole right through your skull, right through your chest<br/>And the dance that you sway to is both figurative and literal<br/>And everything the blond owns is just to fill space, every smile is just collateral</p><p>So you leave it alone and ignore the ache of fraternity<br/>Because life has taught you it's cruel and love isn't for eternity<br/>There's a monster beneath your skin, a murderous intent to your rage<br/>There's claws clutching your heart, a furious beast wrapped in your ribcage</p><p>Dancing until his feet bleed, knowing you'll be there to piece him back together and patch the bloody flesh<br/>Because now you're in too deep and there's too much left to chance, too much left unspoken to unravel from this mess.<br/>Maybe it's safer tangled inside this web, but maybe it's wrong to feel that way.<br/>You'll convince yourself it's too warm to move and not that you're yearning for more, even though you know you shouldn't want to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy on the Balcony

**Author's Note:**

> Kounoi has sailed you guys. The ship has sailed. There's no turning back.
> 
> anyways this is going to be multi-chapter but I am slow so don't get too excited. if anything i'll update like once a fortnight. Sorry aha

Brittle night air whips through the frail curtain that doesn't even deserve such a title. It's just wispy fabric that he traces with malcontent eyes. Fraying edges float upon each cloud of wind gusting through his open window. It would be easy to rid his traditional Japanese room of the odd silk mismatched from the décor, but when the translucent silver struggles against the slightest of breezes, he can't bring himself to pack away the thin threads of memories his mother left behind.

It is at that moment as he gazes upon the rippled cloth that a shadowed silhouette floats in and out of view. What he can tell is that it's far worse than a creature of the night or even a ghost set out for revenge - it's the shrouded outline of a human. He would have brushed it off as a trick of the light, but as he squints through the rumpled curtain he admires the shadow's arms spread like the wings of a bird ready to take flight.

One important detail smashes his curiosity and burns it into a sick rush of adrenalin: he lives in an apartment building ― _very_ tall apartment building at that.

What takes over him is a twisting realisation that opens the gate to a flood of instinct and for some reason anger.

Before he can swallow the ice clogging his windpipe he's already out the window and on the balcony, running towards the figure cloaked in the blackness of nightmares. Surprisingly, he doesn't shout or scream like he imagined. It's a quick tackle to the safety of the cement balcony, the sound of abrasion a sick skid across half the span of the connecting walkway.

He repeats in a whisper _"don't do it, don't do it,"_   telling the guy he has so much to live for despite the fact he knows nothing about this person. Koujaku can barely get a word out through his beastly panting, pinning the person down and growling to hide the tremor in his hands. All that runs through his thoughts is an image of the blade drenched in blood from too many to count, ready to pierce through his own stomach. All he can remember is that flash of vibrant blue that weakened his knees and caused shivers to race among his nerves. _Surely_ this person must have a saviour, a face in the crowd that makes them strong in the weakest of moments. They should live, if not for themselves, then for that one special soul they can't bear to leave behind.

"What the fuck, asshole?" is not the first sentence he was expecting. He knew there would be no _'thanks'_ , yet it still freezes his chest and suddenly he's aware of how the air bites at his exposed skin and the warmth underneath his legs contrasting that. The only fabric draping over this suicidal maniac is a threadbare thermal and pyjama bottoms that he's drowning in. Koujaku fears the guy might have a fever with a temperature like this.

One lonesome sound fills the void of silence beneath a blackened sky; it's the broken gasps of his exhaustion wracking his chest like the wheels of a car bogged in mud: pushing as hard as possible but literally digging a deeper hole. It's surprising, since he has no reason to be so physically exerted, but the molten lava coursing through his veins says otherwise.

 

Tonight is a very eye-opening experience. It's like he had been living in a bubble with the amount of things that fly over his head. The newest realisation is that the plethora of lights glints off certain areas of the guy's apathetic face; blank emerald gaze trained on Koujaku.

"How scandalous," is the unexpected comment in a voice too baritone for this ― this brat. It's spoken so tediously uniformed that Koujaku fails to interpret the meaning of the words themselves. He's too busy gnawing the soft lining of his mouth to look anywhere but this stupid kid's mug in all its altered glory.

The air warms a few degrees by the time he's inferred that it's not coming from the surrounding temperature, but body warmth seeping from the brat who has been reincarnated as a human oven. It all sinks in and suddenly it's too much at once, he's hyper-aware of how he has the boy pinned under his thighs and caged by his hunching frame, sealed between two stiffened arms next to that shaded mop of mess. Now the only sound to reach his ears is his raging snarling as his lungs seize in their confines, they inflate to full capacity yet they crave more, intent on snapping his flimsy ribcage to fill further.

Koujaku has the decency to scramble off the boy and apologise in whispered gasps. His sanguine stare glows under the overwhelmingly heavy weight of his eyelashes: he's struggling to maintain a constant gaze with those luminous voids across from him that he can't quite make out the colour of. The sky is too dull, the lights are too bright, and the world is just a blur. "I wasn't going to jump."

Koujaku can’t find the strength to roll his eyes or even speak coherently, so he simply mumbles, almost to himself "of course you weren't," his rooftop company catches it though, and he retaliates with a shrug.

"If I wanted to jump, I would have."

"So what were you doing standing on a tall ledge at…" he flicks his gaze to check his watch "12:30am, exactly?"

The kid shrugs again.

Koujaku briefly ponders whether he can call him that since he can't quite disconcert if this maniac is a man or a boy: he has a face of a fifteen year old but his eyes are too hollow, even under this lack of sufficient light. Those eyes belong to a war veteran who has seen their friends fall one by one — no, they're even more vacuous. Those empty voids were plucked from the skull of a fresh corpse.

The windows to this brat's soul suddenly shut with a coy smirk tugging at the metal in this boy's lip: it's the most emotion he's shown so far. "I was waiting for my knight in shining armour to come and rescue me." the striking emeralds are visible through a slit as the owner of those black holes speaks over the gravel littering his throat. That's the other mixed signal about this boy's age: that baritone, monotonous smooth growl he manages to speak in. Koujaku's so caught up in trying to read this person he doesn't even grasp the concept of those words before it's too late and he feels the blood rush to his face. He grunts dismissively, too annoyed to string a few words together

"Ha-ha, hilarious. Stop fucking around."

Clicking his tongue, the boy cocks his head towards a shoulder and lets it lull there. A stroke of illumination hits it just right to reveal the golden tone of his locks that splay in the breeze. It's more of a strawberry blond than a rich golden honey, a dulled colour to match his eyes and aloof mask "I was clearing my head."

"Can't you do that away from fatal heights?"

"That's the point of it though." the blond eyes Koujaku as if he's the dullest tool in the shed. Koujaku mirrors the condescending expression.

"Listen, brat." aforementioned 'brat' growls through the vapour of warm breath at this new nickname. "If I catch you up here one more time—"

Koujaku hears his voice splutter and fly away with the wind when the kid apathetically interrupts his speech.

"—you'll what? Tear me a new one? I'd enjoy that. Let's just cut out the middle man and you can shove your fist up my ass right now." How he manages to speak with such vulgarity yet maintain a stone cold expression, Koujaku will never know. What he does understand though is that his if his scalp continues to burn like this, he'll lose the luscious chest-length waterfall of strands he cares so diligently for. The heat is a compound of pure rage, the effort to keep his hands by his sides rather than around the guy's throat, and a healthy dose of embarrassment.

 

"Fuck this," follows as a tension breaker, courtesy of yours truly.

The kid in clothing set to catch a cold storms away in calculated steps, the same gracefulness as he had on the ledge but with a vexed power beneath those bare feet.

That's the last Koujaku sees of the troublemaker. He thinks about it constantly though: ponders if staring down a certain fatality would somehow relax one's mind. Koujaku can understand the concept of the act bringing a rush of adrenalin and with it a thrill, but the rest is too elusive to go into. He can't wipe the memory of that hollow gaze and how it felt to be harrowed by it. It was colder and sharper than the piercings stabbing through the contours on the guy's face.

 

* * *

 

It's not even a month later when the brat ruins Koujaku's night for the second time.

 

His claret irises have long since been covered by paper-thin lids. The sun has dipped below the horizon so long ago that his body has introduced hypnagogic jerks to his loose muscles. Koujaku allows the clutches of sleep to cascade over him as he melts into his sheets that smell of vanilla and a concoction of his hair products bleeding the separate scents together so much that the only thing he can name is the lavender from his leave-in conditioner. The fragrance, coupled with his somnolent state send him into the depths of his dreams.

All is impeccable until a deep vibration travels through his chest, one that rattles his core until his body flings itself awake in fear.

When the room comes into view, visible only by the blue glow of the moon, his eardrums thrum along with every other object. His bed, the walls: the thrumming is so powerful the glass vibrates inside the window pane. Koujaku almost mistakes it for an earthquake. It's closer to a hurricane of screaming and superfluous bass; all shoved into a blender and pureed with some techno trash that sounds like what Koujaku wants to do: vomit. It's as if music had drunken sex with Satan's porno collection and produced an unwanted child that just screamed through layers of puke.

The heat of anger singes the hair on Koujaku's neck when the time is broadcast in square blocks of light. 3:45 in the morning is not the time to blast shit techno trash. There should be no appropriate time to play that garbage at all. So he traces the vibrations origin and he should have known it would lead him to the end of the hall; the apartment that shares a balcony with his.

If he thought it was loud in his bedroom, loud doesn't begin to describe the feeling of decibels tearing his skull from the inside out as he swallows the bile tickling his throat. The raw vibration in his chest is enough to wind him and knot his intestines. He's so pissed he slams his foot into the door so that the asshole can hear him knocking. If it fails though, he's happy enough to tear the wood from its hinges.

On the eighth kick, the music is cut. The pent up anger leaves Koujaku in a low sigh and he forgets just where he is until he's startled back into reality by the soft click of the door. The brat wrenches it open with equal rage as Koujaku had used to bash the door in just seconds ago. His forehead crinkles in confusion when the kid finally emerges from behind the door frame: the only article of clothing he has on is shorts that seem to cling to his hips but from there they flow in waves of unnecessary fabric. The neon green hem and black pattern is loud enough to distract Koujaku from the surprisingly toned midsection, but only for so long. He doesn't gape when he realises that the kid has some serious muscle, although Koujaku does take some time to let it sink in.

The brat is panting as if he had been interrupted from working out, yet there's not a drop of sweat on him. "What do you want?" spits the blond.

Koujaku growls right back "thanks for turning your shit music off, asshole."

"No problem," is the response that bleeds sarcasm and smugness into the one fowl sound, almost on par with his music taste. Both share a mutual glare, and the blond goes to open his mouth to speak again. Koujaku mentally prepares for the next idiocy to spill from those pierced lips. He has seen enough of this guy to predict his next words; probably something racy said in that deadpan tone, maybe an insult or two. What he does not expect is for the words to be soundless and mouthed for a moment, before a nauseating gurgle erupts from the blonde’s throat. His body lurches forward in a few heaves and just as quick as it started, the grand finale is one last heave and then a rush of liquid gushes from his mouth like a fire hydrant of puke. His hand is too slow to cover the bottom half of his face, and even then it leaks out from every side. A few more waves of retching and the brat backwards until his thighs hit the floor with a heavy thud.

Koujaku can't do anything else but gawk with a slack jaw and owl eyes as he tries to conceive the last few seconds. Once the stench of acidic bitterness overwhelms his nose, he finds the strength to cringe and raise the back of his scarred hand to his nose with a scar to match.

He glances to see how the blond is handling this. Slumped on the floor with a cold smile stretching his lips, he chuckles like the inside of his body is a lightning-struck log because somehow his laugh is so empty that it echoes. Koujaku can understand feeling that empty after the amount of fluid now in puddles on the floor.

"Whoopsy…" the pierced brat slurs, as if he's dropped a plate rather than emptied his stomach. “Fuck…" he curses, lolling his head this way and that. "Can you get me a wet towel?"

Koujaku replies a breathy "sure," before he's directed around the apartment much larger than his own, which he can't help but scowl at. It's soon erased from his skin when he ventures further into the labyrinth of white, because it occurs to him that although the flooring might be shinier and the furniture would cost all of what Koujaku would earn a decade, at least his apartment is his home. At least it's warm and inviting with the signs that he had woken up greeting him when he came back from work, the simple oddities a personal mark of ownership, stating loud and clear that he was there. Something as simple as a door left ajar or a light switch left on, a few dishes in the sink and envelopes on the bench. This house has nothing to offer. The furniture may be flashy, but the pieces are scarce and scattered too vastly to form a cohesive flow. A microwave is the only appliance in the kitchen, but it's a cold stainless steel and the buttons haven't even been worn by use. Kitchen sink empty, bin overflowing, and linen closet stark: it's the saddest bachelor pad he's ever seen.

 

He dampens the white towel with cold water and pretends not to be phased by the walls devoid of photo frames or art, as if staring at the walls is like peeking inside the blonde’s soul. Koujaku thinks of his own walls, littered with antique photographs of Aoba, Mizuki and himself, his mother and the art she left behind as well as those terrible wispy curtains. He ignores it all and treks the long walk back to the living room, but on his way past the kitchen, he stops dead because this is something he can't just ignore. Never in his life has he seen a fridge bare of decoration. People proudly display their family photos or achievements on this huge appliance. Kids' drawing or due bills, letters from loved ones all held in place by cute little magnets. The only thing on this gratuitously classy fridge is a layer of gloss over pitch black and an ice dispenser with too many buttons.

Koujaku desperately scans the area for cardboard boxes packed with belongings to suggest that the kid is new here, he probably just got out of school and yet there are no graduation photos or degrees hung up to display. Not one box comes into view.

There's too much going through Koujaku's mind and too little going on around this apartment, so he quickly scurries back to give the towel to the kid in need.

Not so much as huddled on the floor as sprawled is the man-child. When Koujaku passes him the wet fabric he thinks it's an appropriate time for a muttered thank you, but the brat isn't on the same page. As close as it comes is his eyes meeting Koujaku's from the higher stance above him and it makes him appear younger and more vulnerable - even if his expression is just a blank glare. Koujaku feels a slow churn in his gut, something like guilt. Here he is tower over this kid who just looks like a kicked puppy. He crouches down to be on a neutral level with the blond.

Those spheres swirling with melted silver are much less menacing when they're damp and bloodshot, blond lashes sticking to the surrounding skin of his eyelids. Koujaku tears his gaze away from the mess to instead inspect the lounge room. It's thankfully a little more lived in than the rest of the apartment. In fact, it seems like this is the only area lived in. There's too many gaming systems to name all tangled together in a mess of colourful cords, remotes littering the glass coffee table covered in pizza boxes and soda cans. All the consoles are hooked up to a television that might as well be a whole wall. Paper thin and sleek, black as oil and so glossed it looks like a mirror. If it were a car, he imagines it would be a foxy Jet Black streamline Ferrari. He'd kill for either.

There are two other televisions in the room that are less grand but just as slick. Three televisions in the one room could be going overboard, even for the kid. Koujaku questions if maybe this metal-face has a niche for swiping, but he seems more like a rich kid who just doesn't know how to live alone. The big-kid type of guy, the geeky child who never grew out of all the things he loved when he was ten. It doesn't even seem as if he enjoys his wealth, since the atmosphere isn't really that ostentatious. It's a sad humble that suggests he has money but no idea what to spend it on. All of his opulence is in the collection of gaming systems.

This might as well be an electronic store.

A laptop is haphazardly balancing on the glass table top, there's three others connected by wires and umpteen stacked on each other in various places. Parts that Koujaku couldn't name but he can guess they probably belong to computers are strewn across corners of the floor. The one piece he recognises is a dark green slab with wires running through it like veins that he's heard been called a 'motherboard'.

"Yo, old man," the brat interjects his inspection of his surroundings. He doesn't realise it's him being spoken to since that's never been used to describe him in any aspect. Twenty-seven isn't even close to old, and he's certain the ladies don't swoon for his company just because he styles their hair in any way they can name.

"It's Koujaku," he vehemently corrects, trying and failing at keeping the bite from his words.

The kid brushes him off with a muttered "sure, sure," blasé enough to make Koujaku question if he even bothered to listen.

Wobbling with the force of a hurricane the blond places a hand on the white lounge too superfluous for his single status and jolts upwards. Koujaku stands to protest the movement but he's too late; the brat is stumbling already. Three steps are turned into one huge stride, where the raven doesn't catch the blond in two of his strong arms that could easily do the job, but rather he lets him tumble into his chest. He acts as a pillar to the blond trying to regain some posture. Again, there's no such thing as a muttered thanks and Koujaku ponders if it's because he was raised without the need for manners or if he's just a socially inept geek who doesn't know what to say or when to say it. He's hoping for the latter, but the surroundings suggest otherwise.

A huge sigh just for show wheezes from Koujaku's chest as he grips the shoulders draped in the wet towel. "Sit," he orders. A puzzled look is directed to him from below as his strength forces the menace onto the lounge. Finally: a small show of emotion. He praises the heavens that the brat isn't completely detached.

"Are you drunk?"

There it is again: that caustic laugh. Spindly like the dead twigs of a tree; deep and crass like a cello gone years without tuning. "I wish," he mutters. A sad pull of his lips hints that it’s an inside joke Koujaku isn’t even supposed to hear.

"What were you looking for?"

"If you really wanna help, just fetch me some ice water, yeah?" It's more of a demand than it is a request; but Koujaku indignantly acquiesces because those red rimmed eyes pointedly glare at him as if the brat is trying to keep this aura of toughness consistent even when he's confined to the couch.

Koujaku copes with navigating the kitchen and can easily locate a glass because the cupboards are as bare as the day they were installed. Filling the only cup in the house with water, his suspicions are proven correct about the extravagant ice dispenser. There's too many buttons and blinking lights to understand that now there's so many cubes of ice that the glass starts to brim over. Cursing, he creates a temporary sieve with his fingers and drains some water into the sink that gleams too brightly under harsh fluorescent lights.

Creeping in cautious steps back to the blond, condensation seeping through and it's no wonder with the amount of ice that splashed into the water.

The glass almost slips as he hands it to the brat. A few dots catch the light: it seems the piercings aren't just segregated to the latte tint of the maverick's face. It's an unorthodox place to have a barbell; right above the juncture of his thumb and forefinger. Two of them, four unnatural spheres just sitting atop the skin.

Clinking draws his attention to the sound, where he finds that same pierced hand trembling. Ice rattles and shakes inside the glass. The grip is too strong for something as gossamer as a glass. He's afraid that it will snap and sever through the hand squeezing it. "Are you… okay?" out of words and phrases that could possibly suit this situation, he relents to the one of the most basic questions in Japanese vocabulary. Four syllables, five characters, one frozen stare in reply. At first glance it looks like the neon green eyes are frozen in a sense that they're cold, and it's certainly a valid credit. More interestingly and startling, they're not dead like a corpse, but rather stopped dead in their tracks. Halted, glitched but not spaced out or vegetated: processing. They're calculating through a gust of amnesia— actually, it's more like the whole section of his brain is missing these brain cells. The simple synapses are missing; in fact they've never been there in the first place.

The brat is speechless.

So he asks again. "Hello?" Koujaku grates a little too harshly than he intended, although he tries compensating with a soft sigh "I asked if you're alright."

It's gone. The haze of awe is swept from his eyes through a sharp series of blinks. "Just peachy," the reply is perfunctory; Koujaku can’t find it in himself to grind his teeth at that deadpan monotone anymore. "Hey, isn't it past your bedtime, old man?"

"Listen, brat—"

"— _Noiz_."

 _"— **brat** ,"  _he corrects, that stupid name not worthy of being a real name let alone worthy of acknowledgement. "I don't appreciate being woken up by your hip-hop garbage at all hours of the morning and then actually trying to help your sorry ass only to be disrespected—"

"I'm so sorry mother." that nuisance interrupts in a fine example of what Koujaku is fed up with. Sardonic bite he doesn't bother to hide or disguise, just lays it out in the open for the world to hear. That fire builds up in Koujaku's veins and he tries breathing in steady gulps but his skin is burning and that smug smirk is pushing the physical limits of his patients.

"I'm trying to be nice to you, but you're being a spoilt brat!" Koujaku vents in a bellowing rumble. It's not what he hoped he would accomplish, he had reasoned that maybe the kid was just a spoilt brat who was never taught manners or scalded. But all that his yelling proved is that it just isn't so; or that the brat is a pyromaniac who plays with fire and enjoys when he's burnt.

Face spilt in a fiendish gird, the blond slithers a tongue through his pearly razors to poke at the steel dotting his bottom lip. "Oh? Am I too immature for this frail old man?" He's baiting Koujaku — and it's working. It's too late and he's too tired to bother with grinding his teeth: that smirk just makes his own lips quiver into a warning snarl that he can't smooth away.

His back starts tingling like hackles are rising, though he knows it's the raw blistering of the tattoo ink beneath his skin. _"I'll show you **frail**!"_   Koujaku finds himself gurgling in a voice that isn't his own. It's deep and stripped of elegance to be instead bled into wild and harsh like he's swallowed cigarette ash. His lungs feel heavy and full of rocks that grind together. Vision too slow, arms to quick: his hands are full of flesh before he can smell copper or see red gush down in pulsing bursts. In his mind he's watching from afar, so far that it's too blurry to distinguish. He's listening from underneath the ocean whilst the rest of his body is a series of pins and needles on icy hot skin.

Even through his tunnel vision stretching too narrow, he can distinguish those twin beacons glaring like he's the one pinning Koujaku down and not the other way around. His grin doesn't quite reach his eyes apart from the maniacal glint goading Koujaku to dig his talons further, clench his fangs harder, growl a little louder. "Go on," Noiz rasps against the thumbs digging into his windpipe. If Koujaku could feel without fire singing the raised hairs on his body, he would be able to feel the low vibration of the brat's cackle against the pads of his thumbs. He'd be able to feel the hard jolt of a swallow, the ice playing his spine like a xylophone. But he can't: the only thing present is so much anger, so much rage just from looking at the kid's exiguous eyebrows tug together and his thin lips split his face.

"Koujaku?" a voice from the heavens coos to him, making the heat recede into itself and his talons loosen. The red clouding his bloodshot eyes cools into a wave of blue. He imagines running his discoloured fingers through that lukewarm river of azure, a waterfall tumbling down alabaster skin, a petite back curving and swaying in sync with the waves of his hair. But he hears it again, and this time it's no longer a cooing lullaby of childish confusion but a pleading scream of desperation. "Koujaku, stop!" there's no hesitation in his malleable muscles. Relaxing on command like some third-rate show dog, he falls from his pedestal upon the lump of meat below him.

There it is again ― that beastly panting through his clenched teeth, too elongated to sit right in his mouth. His jaw aches in discomfort, eyes stinging with that same singe that comes right before crying.

Every muscle in Koujaku's body is vibrating and he's sweating puddles, his body ablaze with flames of hatred and anger. Frustration overwhelms his fidgeting limbs like there's too much energy coursing through him to stay still. His insides are tight strings extended as far as they can go and the only remedy is to let them fling or keep tightening them until they snap.

"Aoba?" he calls, not quite sure if it's real.

He's also not quite sure how the kid ended up on the floor next to him, or why Aoba looks freshly woken up from deep slumber, or the reason why he's wrapped in a college shirt that might as well be a dress. It's not that he doesn't know, really: of course he knows the reason behind these observations. It's just that he doesn't want to think about their meaning, or even admit that he understands.

 _"What are you doing?"_   his childhood friend asks; that overly familiar voice a foreign, breathy rush of shock.

Koujaku wonders what happened to having a peaceful night, blissfully alone and definitely not dealing with a problematic brat who slept with his ~~crush~~ best friend.

**Author's Note:**

> HEY SO comment what you think and leave a kudos if I'm worthy
> 
> If you wanna leave suggestions for what you'd like to see happen in the next chapters, just comment LITERALLY ANYTHING OKAY
> 
> if you are like me and have trouble writing but you have a great idea you wanna share, I have a tumblr ( http://tsukiyamas-llama-pajamas.tumblr.com/ ) where you can message me and share head canons you'd like to see in the story. 
> 
> AND IMPORTANT the summary is a poem I wrote but the site wouldn't let me post the full thing SO if you would like to read the full thing COMMENT and i'll post it in the NEXT CHAPTER's NOTES 
> 
> just literally comment banana i'll love u
> 
> thnx guise for reading my shit stay awesome


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